I’ll never forget the drive to our holiday spot in the Brecon Beacons – or rather, the white-knuckle bit when we took a wrong turn down a narrow lane near Abergavenny and ended up nose-to-nose with a sheep farmer’s tractor. A quick reverse into a hedge (no damage, phew) and we were back on track, hearts racing but laughing about it. By the time we trundled into Tretower, just a few miles from Crickhowell, the anticipation was bubbling – visions of cosy evenings and cracking pub grub after a long week back home.

Pulling up to the place, we were chuffed to bits. It’s this cracking traditional five-bed house right in the heart of Bannau Brycheiniog National Park, perfect for our group of eleven. Off-road parking sorted, we stepped inside and bam – first impressions were spot on. The kitchen’s a dream: massive, airy, kitted out with every gadget you could wish for. I could already picture us muddling through a big Welsh breakfast or something fancier.

We wasted no time diving into the food scene, which is what this trip was all about for me. First night, I nobly volunteered as chef (big mistake). Armed with local sausages from Crickhowell’s butcher – thick, herby beauties – and some fresh veg from the farm shop just down the road, I attempted a cawl stew. It started promisingly, onions sizzling, lamb simmering, but I overseasoned it something rotten. Tasted like the Bristol Channel! Still, we scoffed it down with slabs of crusty bread from the village bakery, washing it back with a decent bottle of Welsh red. The dining table’s huge, so we all crammed in, stories flowing as freely as the wine.

Next day, we hit the Crickhowell market – what a gem. Stalls groaning under Caerphilly cheeses, plump leeks, and jars of homemade chutney. I loaded up on bara brith and some smoked trout, dreaming of elevenses. Back at the house, elevenses turned into a full-on picnic in the garden, with the lads trying (and failing) to perfect Welsh rarebit. Melted cheese everywhere, but boy, was it gooey and moreish.

Evenings were pub central. The Bear in Crickhowell, a stagger away, became our haunt. Proper old-school boozer with beams (sorry, got carried away), dishing up platters of battered cod and chips that could feed an army. One night, we went for the roast – tender Powys beef, Yorkshire puds like clouds, gravy so good I nearly proposed to it. And the local ales? Smooth as, with that hoppy kick. We’d roll back stuffed, vowing to walk it off, but nah, straight to the sofa with leftover pud.

Cooking mishaps aside – I’m no MasterChef, am I? – it made me reflect on how these stays remind you food’s about the faff and the laughs, not perfection. Simple joys: rustling up brekkie from market hauls, supping in snug pubs, bellies full under Beacons stars. If you’re after a self-catering escape where eating drives the fun, this neck of Mid Wales is pure gold. We’re already plotting a return for more feasts.